Just now they have cleared off every
blossom out of the garden except my zinnias, which grow magnificently
and make the devastated flower-bed still gay with every hue and tint a
zinnia can put on--salmon-color, rose, scarlet, pink, maroon, and fifty
shades besides. On the veldt too the flowers have passed by, but their
place is taken by the grasses, which are all in seed. People say the
grass is rank and poor, and of not much account as food for stock, but
it has an astonishing variety of beautiful seeds. In one patch it is
like miniature pampas-grass, only a couple of inches long each seed-pod,
but white and fluffy. Again, there will be tall stems laden with rich
purple grains or delicate tufts of rose-colored seed. One of the
prettiest, however, is like wee green harebells hanging all down a tall
and slender stalk, and hiding within their cups the seed. Unfortunately,
the weeds and burs seed just as freely, and there is one especial
torment to the garden in the shape of an innocent-looking little plant
something like an alpine strawberry in leaf and blossom, bearing a most
aggravating tuft of little black spines which lose no opportunity of
sticking to one's petticoats in myriads. They are familiarly known as
"blackjacks," and can hold their own as pests with any weed of my
acquaintance.
But the most beautiful tree I have seen in Natal was an _Acacia
flamboyante_. I saw it at D'Urban, and I shall never forget the contrast
of its vivid green, bright as the spring foliage of a young oak, and the
crown of rich crimson flowers on its topmost branches, tossing their
brilliant blossoms against a background of gleaming sea and sky.
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